


The Exodus

by waywardelle



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom!Sam, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Sam Winchester's Birthday, Season/Series 12, Switching, because dean's gotta try it first, bottom!Dean, spoiler: they totally fall in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2017-05-16
Packaged: 2018-11-01 11:13:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10920660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywardelle/pseuds/waywardelle
Summary: So. Dean left with Cas over a week ago on some sort of recon mission, and yeah, Sam has been trying to bury himself in research, but he's just not coping all that well with the long-term separation. He wakes up early one morning, expecting the day to be like all the rest, except it's evenworsethan all the rest, because he's completely and totally alone on his (brother-less) thirty-fourth birthday. His bleak outlook quickly changes with an unexpected phone call, and he has to admit thatmaybesomeone, somewhere answered his embarrassingly needy birthday wish, despite his lack of candles to blow out.“Yeah,” Sam breathes, trying to convince himself he’s not dreaming. It’s just-- Dean is only sweet like this, open like this in Sam’s best dreams, so… how on earth could this be real? “I missed you,” Sam adds, breathing it shyly into the air between them, watching how the words affect his brother.(Season 12/canon compliant, but I don't address anything specifically happening in the show. This is about what happens between what we see, you know?)





	The Exodus

**Author's Note:**

> Recently, someone left a comment on one of my other fics that said something like, "I loved this story because I could tell how much you love Sam and Dean." It struck me as just about the nicest thing someone could say, so I took it to heart as a challenge. So, this is my love letter to Sam and Dean Winchester. Even if inspiration doesn't hit me as often anymore, I will never love and admire two men more than the Winchesters, for all the amazing things that love has given my life. So, here's to you, boys, and the love between you that inspires these humble words. This is short on plot, big on Sam and Dean falling in love (and buttsex). ;P Xo  
> Ps-- This is unbeta'd, as usual, so please bear with me as I clean up my typos.  
> Pps-- Claire is in this for a hot second, but I have to admit I haven't seen all episodes from this season, therefore I don't know her fate (no spoilers, please!!). So in this fic, she's living with Jody & Alex like she was in season 11. :)

" **T** ake my hand, travel south cross land  
Put out the fire, don't look past my shoulder  
The exodus is here; the happy ones are near  
Let's get together before we get much older..."  
\-- 'Baba O'Riley' - The Who

With an unhappy sigh, Sam sits straight up in bed, running his fingers through his hair before grabbing big hunks of it, tugging harshly. _This. Is. Ridiculous._ He’s on his seventh night in a row without more than an hour's sleep, and even then, when his exhausted eyes finally close, his rest is uneasy, tinged with vaguely horrifying dreams that thankfully stay just out reach, but leave him feeling unsettled, anyway. Sighing, he runs a hand down his sleepy, stubbled, stormy face.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when his phone rings, and he grapples for it before it buzzes right off the nightstand. (He has it set on both loud and vibrate, okay? So what? It’s not for any particular pathetic reason. It's not like he's waiting for someone to call, or anything.) He looks at the caller ID blankly, heart sinking a little because, well, it isn’t who he wants it to be. Eyeing the early morning hour on his alarm clock, his heart sinks for another reason, tentatively answering the phone.

“Uh, Jody? Hey. Is something wrong?” There has to be, because why in the hell else would she be disturbing him at half-past five in the morning? He’s a little on edge from lack of sleep, so he’s almost convinced one of those British bastards found their way to Jody and the girls. He flings the covers off his legs, adrenaline pumping. “Stay put. I’m on my--”

A blast of noise through the phone's speaker so loud he has to hold the phone away from his ear has him doubly concerned, until his muddled, over-tired brain makes sense of what he’s hearing. It makes him pause through stuffing his feet into his house shoes, the adrenaline draining out of him. The start of a bright, warm blush journeys its way across his cheeks and down his chest instead, his smile small but real as the noise continues.

“...Haaappy birthday dear Sam-maaayyy, happy birthday to yooooOOOOU!!!” 

Three distinct female voices sing-shout through the phone, ending on a screeching high note that lasts at least five seconds, and he’s laughing before he can help himself. He thinks of the last time he was serenaded on his birthday, vaguely remembering Dean’s delighted face and a crowd of clapping waiters at TGI-Fridays. Needless to say, he didn't appreciate it very much. That time, it was all about Sam’s humiliation (although Dean’s face, when he realized Sam wasn’t going to share the complimentary dessert, was almost worth it).

This time, though. His friends. His… his family, who not only remembered his birthday when he forgot, but called him bright and early to sing to him through the phone. That hasn’t happened since Stanford, and Jess. So this, despite his embarrassment… this, he can appreciate. At thirty-four years old, he's finally allowed to revel in the day of his birth.

“Uh, thanks guys,” he finally responds with a chuckle, after an expectant silence on their end, grinning despite the warmth on his cheeks. He hopes they can tell how much he means his thanks, despite his awkwardness. “But um, couldn’t you have waited until, I don’t know… at least 7am?”

“No can do, kiddo,” Jody responds brusquely. He can hear the sizzling of something being fried on the griddle-top (bacon or eggs or both, if he had to guess), and he can almost smell Jody’s kitchen in the early morning, and he instantly misses it. 

He misses the strong smell of coffee waking him up like some sort of Folgers’ commercial, misses Jody’s sweet smelling shampoo wafting through steamy air after she lumbers out of the shower, the shuffle of two teenage girls trying to function on little-to-no-sleep. It’s a different kind of comfort than he's used to, different than Dean’s, than the Bunker’s. Dean and the Bunker represent places he will always belong-- with his brother, and his legacy. Jody’s comfort represents the places he chooses to belong.

Like that horrible last day before Dean's soul was repossessed by Lilith. They tried to leave Bobby behind, because they thought it was a kindness, that Bobby shouldn't have to go down with them, shouldn't be damned for the Winchesters' terrible decisions. Bobby had refused to give up on them, though, and he'd chased them down like they were two misbehaving boys, and he taught them a lesson they'd carry with them for the rest of their lives. That while having each other was good, having others to turn to was even better. He taught them how to let people like Jody in, how to let someone besides their brother see them vulnerable, afraid. Bobby taught them that family don't end with blood. 

Later, they had to learn that family doesn't necessarily start there, either, no matter how thick you know your own blood to be. That's still a tricky one for him, even more so for Dean. It's hard to understand how someone could look at his brother (someone like a mother, for instance, you know, _hypothetically_ ) and not love every perfect inch of him. It's even more unfathomable to not be proud of him, the good man Dean has grown up to be. Gruff, but gentle. Sarcastic, but understanding. His need to save the world drives him still, every day, two decades into this life, despite the weight placed across his strong, broad shoulders. He still fights for what's right, still fights for Sam, for their life together. And-- and Dean can be so _funny_ when he's in a certain mood, and his astounding knowledge of pop culture never fails to surprise Sam-- more than that, the surprise lives more with Dean's complete lack of embarrassment over the fact that he knows _all_ of the Kardashian-Jenner family's names. In order, by birthdate. Or, or the fact Dean can recite Evil Dead 2 word-for-word, gets way too much enjoyment out of saying 'hail to the king, baby,' to the point where Sam wonders if he's gonna be dipped for a kiss-- anyway. 

The point is, Dean is a pretty amazing man, and any person with their bloodline or not who can look at Dean, then look past him to see what else is out there, anyone who could choose to spend their time seeking fulfillment elsewhere, when every road Sam's ever traveled has led back to Dean-- well. That person obviously doesn't know what they're missing. But it's fine, because that means more Dean for him. And he'll take every second Dean will allow him. So there. If-- if _some_ people can't see how special he is, they don't _ever_ deserve to find out how embarrassingly wrong they were about Dean. 

Anyway. The point is, it’s comforting to him, to have his chosen family, too. To have early mornings at Jody’s, with Dean slumped against his shoulder, a coffee cup glued to his mouth, while she good-naturedly scolds them for not taking care of themselves, mothering them as she mothers her two girls. And after, when the brothers decide it's time to head home again, she loads their arms with practically overflowing Tupperware containers with still-warm, home-cooked amazingness inside, just to make sure they have a good week of homemade meals already prepared. 

After meeting their real mother, Mary, Sam couldn't help the ugly thought that flitted through his mind the next time they saw Jody: _she's the kind of mom I wanted Mary to be. She's more of a mom to us than Mary ever will be._

All-in-all, Sam thinks that it comes down to the comfort he finds in someone who isn’t Dean, someone who isn't _blood_ seeing something worth loving in him. Sam doesn’t understand why, but Jody loves him, and Jody is an amazing woman-- an amazing person, and he loves her back. Adores her, actually, letting himself lean into the hugs she presses him in to. Letting himself take comfort from her. Just. If someone like Jody loves him, he must still be doing something right. There must be something worth saving inside Sam, despite all the ways he's let his family down. 

Jody suddenly yells something to Alex, and it startles Sam into realizing that he totally spaced on their conversation. He shakes his head to clear it, determined to give Jody his full attention. She deserves it. 

“...have to go into the station early to check on a few things, and the girls have school, so we’re up ‘n at ‘em this morning,” Jody is explaining as Sam tunes back in. “Also, we were kinda hoping to be the first to wish you a happy birthday, so we figured the earlier the better.”

Sam laughs. “Gee, thanks. Who else would’ve gotten to it already, anyway? It’s not even light out.”

“Dean hasn’t done the honors yet?” Jody asks, fake-outraged.

“It’s 5AM,” Sam points out once again, refusing to acknowledge the butterflies trying to flutter up his throat, brought on by Jody's implications. “You know damn well there’s no way Dean Winchester’s gonna get up before eight for anything less than a life or death situation.” 

“Oh, puh- _lease!”_ Claire’s voice calls out suddenly. “You’re telling me you two don’t spoon all night in that cold, lonely bunker? I call BS, Sammy. Put Deano on the phone.”

 _“Claire,”_ Jody hisses, but Sam can almost see the smirk on Claire’s face, anyway.

“Um,” Sam finally answers, after a nervous chuckle. He’s nearly purple with the blush inching down his chest, can feel the heat coming off his skin. Christ, is he that transparent? If Jody knows how he feels, then what's to say Dean-- 

“So, anyway,” Sam starts again, clearing his throat, hoping he doesn’t sound as wobbly as he feels. Jesus, Claire sure doesn’t pull any punches. “Dean isn’t here. He’s not home,” he responds, trying to sound nonchalant, like he doesn’t miss Dean like a vital organ. “Cas needed one of us for some recon, and one of us to do some research, so. Dean’s better in the field, and I’m better here. He and Cas zapped out of here about a week ago, but... he shouldn’t be gone too much longer.” _Hopefully,_ he adds to himself. 

There’s a sharp rustling, then suddenly Jody’s voice is much closer, quieter, like she’s taken the call off speakerphone. “Sam. You mean to tell me you’re all alone on your birthday?”

“Jody, it’s fine,” Sam insists, because it really is. Sam knew his birthday had been coming up, but with Dean gone, he hadn’t really been keeping up with what day it was, because they all seem to monotonously run together when he’s left alone like this. 

He really and truly hates it, in a way that makes his former streak of independence, that urge to _runrunrun_ pulsing through his blood, scoff and roll its eyes at him. It’s pathetic, the way he doesn’t want to be alone anymore. The way it feels… _wrong_ to have Dean so far away. And the way the only thing that seems to make him crack a smile when Dean’s gone is when his phone rings (and buzzes), and it’s his brother’s name flashing on the caller ID. 

What can he say? He’s a thirty-three-- wait, now thirty-four-- year old little brother whose life won’t officially start again until Dean comes home. It’s like the days without him are limbo-- not Hell, but certainly not paradise either. Sam has been to Hell without his brother, and he’s been to paradise with him. He often wonders if the reason the Pit was so bad is because it was absolutely devoid of everything Dean, and everything Dean represents: warmth, comfort, loyalty, duty, honor, and love and love and love. Wherever he ends up-- Heaven, Hell, Purgatory, the Empty-- give him his brother, and he’ll make do. 

But, anyway, his birthday-- it _is_ fine that he’s alone, because his birthdays have been either completely horrible or totally ignored, for the most part at least, and he still has trouble deciding if the whole Amelia thing happened, or if he had some kind of psychotic break. He doesn’t want to know, he doesn’t think. If it was a psychotic break, his brain actually gave him something nice for once, and if it was real, she was a lovely person who baked him a cake on his birthday. He knows when to leave well enough alone, and be thankful he’s still alive to wonder on things. It doesn’t matter, anyway, in the end, because. Well, because Dean came back. 

And that’s just the thing, isn’t it? He wanted normal, or ‘safe,’ someone else’s life. That just-out-of-reach dream life Sam yearned for, the life that, for a long time, he worked diligently to achieve for himself, far away from his family’s disapproval and shadows: the ‘apple pie’ life and all its fixin’s. 

But as the years passed by, with Dean by his side, he stopped thinking about 'getting out.' He started thinking about Dean instead. His brother was damaged just like Sam after all these years, but Dean was still with him, still inherently _Dean_ despite it all. He soon realized that Dean needed him to still be _Sam_ in those same ways, to be his constant in the otherwise violent, transient nature of their lives. It only made sense, the way they chose to keep each other above all else, choosing to be unselfish with themselves in all other ways, letting themselves be used as warriors against evil, but never, _ever_ at the expense of one another.

He remembers when he first realized it, completely, how much they truly needed each other, and how tired he was of hiding it from Dean. And this is when he realized that Dean deserved to know--

About a year ago, maybe a bit more (Dean had been rid of the Mark for a little while), Sam had been bitching at Dean all day about little things. Sam just... gets that way sometimes, usually when something huge is stressing him out that he doesn’t want to talk about, like Amara, so he focuses on wet towels and misplaced books and nothing but junk food to eat. That’s what he’d been going on about at that moment, complaining about how hungry he was but he couldn’t find a thing to eat that wasn’t artificially flavored. 

Suddenly, Dean stood up, slamming the book shut he’d been trying to read. He planted his hands against the edge of the table, bracing himself, dropping his head between his shoulders with a sigh, like someone had cut his puppet strings. Sam had instantly felt like shit, knowing he was being the worst kind of nag, every bit the little brother brat trying to get under big brother’s skin for attention or maybe a fight or-- or, in his wildest dreams, a kiss to shut him up-- but anything, _anything_ was better than feeling like some ancient angry anti-God in a busty brunette’s body was trying to steal his, his _Dean_ away from him.

Then Dean lifted his head, so suddenly that Sam had startled. To his surprise, though, Dean had been smiling his private, Sam-only smile, his eyes soft and fond. Like, really smiling, eye crinkles all folded into happy little lines across his upper cheeks and temples, the pale pink of his stretched lips turning into a darker shade as he bit at his lower lip almost playfully, almost flirtatiously. Sam found himself gripping his own edge of the library table, meeting Dean’s eyes to read the unguarded affection there, the… the way his eyes almost seemed sad, bright and twinkling like he was holding back a sob for dear life, like it hurt to feel so much about someone who had the power to hurt him as much as Sam did. And suddenly, Sam just knew he couldn't hurt him ever again, beyond that, he didn't want to. He knew he would never leave him again, and he would die with Dean’s name on his lips, with Dean’s voice in his ear, calling him Sammy one last time. He could feel tears behind his own eyes suddenly, and one slid down his tired, unshaved cheek. He didn’t try to stop it, because he wanted Dean to see. He'd let the tear carve its tickling path down his skin, holding Dean's gaze the entire time.

“Gonna be the death’a me, Sammy,” Dean had murmured finally, pulling the Impala’s keys out of his pocket. He backed away from the table, walking right by Sam’s chair before he realized his big brother was going somewhere. His hand shot out without his brain’s permission, gripping Dean’s arm tightly, feeling the soft skin and shifting muscle under his touch. He was so warm, so alive. Sam needed him so much, he was mute with it. Instead, he loosened his hold on Dean’s forearm only to slide his hand to his big brother’s wrist. He then wrapped his fingers more determinedly around him than before, touching them to Dean’s wrist one at a time, so slowly it caused Dean to look down at him, watch him. Sam could feel the insistent press of his brother’s pulse against two of his fingers, and he could almost feel as his own pulse synced up with Dean's.

“Where are you going?” Sam asked him finally, trying not to sound like he was pleading for him to stay, no matter Dean’s answer. He wanted Dean to choose him, no matter what it was, and he wondered if Dean felt like that about Stanford. About the demon blood, and Ruby. That no matter how good of a reason Sam had to leave, the love Dean wanted Sam to have for him all those years ago was the kind of love that would choose Dean, choose to stay with him, despite the reasons he had to leave. Perhaps, in spite of them, too. Sam was very well-versed in his own selfishness, and he knew, without a doubt, that his younger self could have never been brave enough to need Dean like Dean had always openly needed Sam. 

He knew then, with a sweet, sure clarity, that he had to leave Dean every single time he did (and oh, did he ever leave Dean, it used to be his favorite thing to do, from running away as a kid because he knew Dean would coddle him the second he came back, to lying about Stanford until the night before he left so Dean wouldn't have time to talk him into staying, from taking off on his own so soon after they were reunited and it stupidly leading him to Meg, to the many blood-tinged nights he lied right into Dean's wounded eyes just so he could sneak off with Ruby, from leaving a few days after waking up with Lucifer at the wheel to hunt his Kitsune first kiss, to speeding away in the dark, sobbing inside the beat-up Impala, repeating to himself that Dean was _dead,_ and that there was no point in looking for him, even though deep down, it's because he knew his fragile mind would break under the strain of having to find Dean all by himself, no Bobby, no Cas, no nothing, and then his headlights shone upon a dog) to remind him of just how badly he needed to stay right here, of just how badly things go without Dean by his side. But in that moment, Sam felt like he was finally brave. Like he finally deserved to have the endlessness of Dean’s love, the love Dean had been showing him little-by-little all his life. 

But most of all, he finally understood that Dean needed the entirety of his love, too. Not only that-- Dean was ready for it. He was ready for the kind of love Sam could only ever give: all of it, the whole of his heart, his body and his mind, his humor and his possessiveness. He was ready to give himself over to it. Dean had tried and failed to love other people, and he knew Sam had, too. Sam had realized long ago, the correlation between their attempted relationships and the suspicious lack of brother in their lives (Jess, Cassie, Lisa, Amelia…), and that in this case, it might just equal causation. 

But in that moment, as Dean’s pulse raced under his fingers (his resting BPM an astounding 97, which made Sam a little smug), he knew that Dean was ready, and if the retirement brochure Dean swiped was any indication, he was giving in to the only way Sam could have his brother: forever. 

“Gonna go grab you somethin' good to eat,” Dean had told him, snapping his thoughts away, his soft fingers pushing Sam’s hair back from his forehead, which caused Sam’s eyelids to fall closed. Another tear began its descent down Sam's cheek, but Dean stopped it that time, smoothing it away under his callused thumb, tracing it along Sam's jaw before softly pressing the pad of his thumb into Sam's bottom lip, watching the give of Sam's mouth intently. He’d been so achingly gentle, despite the way he was watching him, and Sam just... _wanted_ him. So fucking badly. For the first time, he put a name to what he felt: he _wanted_ Dean, in every single way he could have him. For all the rest of his days. 

Dean made a hurt noise in the back of his throat as another tear slipped down Sam’s tired face. He nudged at Sam’s chin, drawing his soft thumb against his jaw once more, before pressing against it, asking for Sam's eyes. Sam had looked up dutifully, shivering a little at the grazing touch against his adam's apple, meeting his brother’s sad green eyes as his warm palm came to rest against Sam’s scruffy, wet cheek. “Just wan’ you to feel better, little brother, that's all. If rabbit food is gonna make you feel better, then I’m gonna get you some go’damn rabbit food.”

“No,” Sam decided firmly, but then again, it hadn't really been a decision at all. It was only the truth, a truth he was tired of fighting. He smiled softly up at his brother, sighing. “I just want… Stay, please. That’s… what I need. To feel better. Is for… is for you to stay. Please.” He'd held on to Dean’s wrist tightly, to keep his hand against Sam’s face so he could burrow his nose into it, trace the tip against Dean’s love line etched in his palm. Then, he ghosted his lips over Dean’s thumb, let his breath grow hot and damp against his brother’s skin. He heard Dean swallow thickly, so he had looked up at his brother, holding his gaze through both of their heavy lashes.

“Yeah,” was all Dean had murmured, but then he sat back down, next to Sam instead of across from him. He moved his hand from Sam’s cheek, trailing it down his shoulder to massage at the tense muscle, before dropping it to rest against Sam’s upper thigh. Dean had squeezed his thigh tightly, like he was both letting go and holding on, so Sam had dropped his hand on top of Dean’s, and they spent the whole night researching for a way to defeat Amara with their fingers tightly clasped. And then, the next day, Rowena came by with a plan to turn Dean into a bomb. Sam was kidnapped soon after, along with their mom returning. Then, their mom breaking both of their hearts. On and on, and suddenly, it’s been a year since that talk. The talk when Sam realized he was fooling himself if he thought he could live any life without Dean. If he truly thought that one day, he'd be able to look into Dean’s eyes, where he could watch as he broke his big brother's heart for the final time by saying goodbye, by meaning it. 

No, he could never do that. He could never _want_ to do that. So even though, after that night passed, their lives continued at a heartbreaking pace, and they haven’t really had time to be anything but each other’s shoulder to platonically and metaphorically lean on, Sam can feel (and knows Dean can, too) the pull of-- of whatever it is between them, the love, the soulmates thing, whatever it is that makes Dean the human embodiment of every want he has ever had in this life. 

That pull caused Sam to build that home, that former dream-life wish, with Dean. In Dean, because Sam realized that Dean was, is, and will always be his dream. That completely changed everything for Sam, and the emotional gratification of finally feeling like he belongs, feeling like Dean sees him as his equal, has kept him satisfied with not pushing the issue of what all their love could entail. He hasn’t told Dean that in so many words, although he’s done everything but say he’s decided to stick out the rest of this life with him, that his young arrogance (‘I’m not gonna live this life forever… one day, you’re gonna have to let me go my own way’) has been replaced with the hope that Dean will have him. He thinks Dean has figured it out, though, because Sam has started offering his heart up, started using the word ‘home’ to describe the important places they rest their weary heads. 

And Dean has become softer, too. He’s changed in so many ways; getting older has done nothing but make Dean even harder not to love. He’s a homebody these days, and except for a few random women that Sam honestly can’t hold against him, he’s stopped hooking up. Thank god, because it drives Sam crazy, always has and always will, even back to Sam’s youth when Dean would ditch him to go get his dick sucked. Sam has always had a hard time hiding his irrational, dark jealousy over anyone who got to see parts of Dean he wasn’t privy to. 

Dean has even cut back on drinking, and unless it's a time of crisis or serious self-loathing, Dean only drinks if Sam will join him. Dean’s gone above and beyond, really, making himself _useful_ in every way, from teaching himself how to cook truly amazing meals, to learning a dozen different ways to get blood out of their clothes. 

Sam would never, ever say this out loud for fear of being tortured before a gruesome death, but… Dean has kinda become the hottest, most badass housewife ever. Like, the kind of housewife that cleans their collection of guns until they’re shiny and smooth and work like a dream, right there on the kitchen table, while periodically checking the oven to make sure the heavenly-smelling pie he’s baking is on the right track to deliciousness. Sometimes, Sam catches him in just his boxer briefs and an apron, and he has to go duck into his bedroom to take care of the way his dick hardens like he's thirteen again. 

Sometimes, Sam wonders if Dean is teasing him. He wonders if Dean is waiting for Sam to break, just like Sam is waiting for Dean. He wonders if there’s any way Dean could want this as much as he does. But he just doesn’t see how. 

Dean has become softer in other ways, too. He actually trusts Sam again, and it started the second he began to trust Dean again fully. And he does trust him, and more importantly, he trusts that no matter what, they will always be together. That choosing each other above everything is a foregone conclusion. 

It’s like Dean is thanking Sam for his surrender to this, to what they are, to what Dean has (possibly?) always wanted them to be. He shares his fears and worries without hesitation now, like Sam is his equal, finally, _finally._ Dean lets his little brother see the tender underbelly guarded by his big brother’s unyielding shoulders and strong, striped, straight back. 

It thrills Sam to see Dean like this, to be so close to him again, but… god. He’s such a freak, because something went wrong inside him, something he’s been afraid of, why he didn’t want to give in to building a home with his big brother. Admitting it to himself that night, with Dean wiping his tears away and looking like all the world could fit inside Sam’s eyes, was a huge milestone, but this... this hang up he has on Dean, it’s hardly a new revelation.

Okay, so. Dean has always been beautiful to Sam, ever since he was eleven, maybe even before, and his first wet dream starred his sixteen-year-old big brother with his big hands and his big, young dick, the big brother who still slept in his little brother’s bed every night, at the little brother's insistence. The dream was pretty innocent, just Dean rubbing his bare cock (the same one Sam felt every morning pressed against his butt) all over Sam’s stomach until he could feel his own cock responding in his sleep shorts. He remembers thinking, in the dream, how much bigger Dean’s was, how much he wanted to touch him, make Dean feel good.

Now that Dean knows, for the most part, how Sam feels-- or at least, the potential for what he could feel, their relationship seems to be at a standstill. They’re still good with each other, still laugh and comfort each other, but Sam hardly knows how to take the next step. Hardly knows if he should, or if Dean wants him to-- because there’s a real possibility that Dean could devote himself to Sam for the rest of his life without it ever becoming more than brotherly, more than affection. And Sam, well, he could live with that. He would spend his whole life hoping for more, but to be with Dean, to be able to be with his brother, love him for the rest of his life-- that would be a good life lived, Sam thinks. 

But god, with a brother like Dean, who he loves more than he’s ever loved anything, including himself, who deserves everything but only seems to want Sam by his side, as if he could ever be enough, who looks like-- like everything beautiful in Sam’s world, with strong shoulders and a smile Sam would die for, and by-- with a brother like that, how could Sam not want more? How could Sam not fall in love with him, day by day, a little a time, until he realizes that there won’t be a day he doesn’t fall a little bit more in love with him? 

The Devil, he could resist. But Dean has always been his weak spot, and beyond that, Sam doesn’t want to resist him. That’s always been the problem with them-- they are so selfish with each other, and despite Sam’s insistence over the whole Gadreel mess that Sam wouldn’t save Dean if he didn’t want to be saved-- well. 

Not six months later, Dean was turned into a demon, and that demon wrote Sam a note that blatantly said 'SAMMY LET ME GO.' Sam had refused, hunting the demon down anyway, and when Sam found him, Dean’s demon unflinchingly repeated to Sam that he didn’t want to be cured, didn’t want to be saved, to just _let him go._ But there was just no way Sam was going to listen to that! The demon didn’t know what he was saying. Sam was going to get Dean back for Dean’s own good, just like Dean had done with Sam’s life, Sam’s soul, over and over. Sometimes, they had to make tough calls for each other, but Dean _needed_ his humanity.

And that’s when Sam realized that even though it was true, the ‘real’ Dean would be horrified over what his demon-self was doing (just like Sam was over what soulless him had done), and even though, yes, the ‘real’ Dean would want Sam to restore him to a human-- he wasn’t doing it for Dean. Above all, Sam was doing it for himself, because he needed Dean. He needed him so badly, he would’ve gladly let Dean’s demon kill him if Cas hadn’t shown up just in time to stop him. Sam would rather be dead than live any life without his brother. There is no life for Sam without his brother, period. 

And Jesus... if that hadn’t been the most _humbling_ moment of his life-- he had torn Dean apart, torn their relationship to pieces (‘if you wanna be brothers? …those are my terms’ ). He had watched a little piece of Dean die that day, watched the way his eyes had shuttered over, knowing right then that he’d made a terrible mistake, but he’d been too proud, too hurt to take it back. All that bitterness, all that anger, all those terrible months apart, the words Sam had said that drove Dean into taking on the Mark, the Mark that had wanted Sam’s death, the Mark that Dean had defied at the last moment, for Sam. Again. Always for Sam.

Because Dean had accepted their ugly reality a long time ago: that they needed each other, and no matter what they said about letting go or moving on, no matter who or what tried to force their hand, no matter the strength of their enemy, no matter their convictions, when faced with the option of saving each other, no matter the cost, it was never too great of a task, never too large a price. They would watch the world burn, arm-in-arm, as long as they could do it together. Their sort of love wouldn’t allow them to give up on each other. 

Sam just wishes Dean would be brave for him, for them one more time, and make a move. Something, anything, to let Sam know he hasn’t imagined all of this since that night Sam asked Dean to stay. The night that Dean stayed, because Sam had asked him to.

“You sure you wanna be alone today, kid?” Jody cuts in, startling Sam. He wonders how long he was quiet, how long Jody was talking to him before she realized he wasn’t listening. Sometimes, it’s scary how well she knows him. “The girls and I could be there by tonight.”

“No,” Sam says firmly. “Please, don’t. I’ll be okay, promise. I’m just gonna… go back to sleep for a little while, okay?”

“Sam,” Jody sighs through the phone, sounding exasperated and fond all at once. It makes him smile. “Call me if you change your mind. It’s okay to want some company, you know?”

“I know. I will,” he promises, although they both know he’s lying through his teeth. “Thanks again, Jody.”

“Happy birthday, sweetie,” she tells him softly, and he hangs up with a sad smile. 

Sleeping is probably the last thing he’ll be able to do, but he slumps back into his pillows anyway. He’s so goddamn tired, but sleep just won’t come. He knows that he won’t sleep well until Dean comes home, and he feebly hopes Dean’ll make it back for his birthday. He doesn’t really think he will; he hardly believes that Dean remembers, but it’s a nice thought.

Okay, it’s not like Dean _always_ forgets, but Sam just can’t blame Dean when he does. Sometimes, it’ll be the first week in February before he realizes he’s missed Dean’s. He’ll run into that hole in the wall record store two towns over to get another one of Dean’s tapes on vinyl (it’s been a goal of Dean’s to collect all of them, since settling down in the Bunker), or he’ll order all of Dean’s favorites from a greasy spoon diner, letting him indulge before silently handing him a Prilosec.

And Dean will sometimes throw him little gifts around the beginning of May, like an occult book with a shriveled, leathery cover in a language he had way too much fun deciphering a few years back, and last year, a business card with the telephone number of the best hunter-friendly tattoo artist in the Midwest with Dean’s block writing on the back:

_GUY OWES ME A FAVOR. ANYTIME YOU WANNA GO, THE SPOT IS YOURS. HAPPY BELATED, LITTLE BRO. PS--IF U WANT ME TO GO W/ U, JUST SAY THE WORD. IF NOT, THAT’S OK TOO._

He hasn’t taken Dean up on his offer yet, but he knows he will soon. It’s way past time. 

He checks his alarm clock again-- nearly 6am now. It’s still about two hours before he wants to get up; it’s his birthday, after all, and if Dean can’t be here, then he has to treat himself to nice things in other ways. Honestly, he kind of wishes he could just sleep these lonely days away, but no, of course not. He puts his phone back on his nightstand before turning to his side, curling up in a comfortable position to drop back into sleep.

Half an hour later, he’s in the middle of a full-blown pity-fest, feeling extremely sorry for himself, because his only flesh-and-blood brother couldn’t even remember his birthday. It usually wouldn’t bother him; it usually doesn’t bother him! And he knows it’s unfair to Dean to expect him to care this year when neither of them have for so long, but maybe-- maybe deep down, Sam wanted Dean to care first, so… so Sam knew it was okay for him to care about it, too. Ugh. 

He sits up again, but this time, he grabs his pillow and the top blanket off his bed. He grabs his phone, stuffs his feet into the boat-sized house shoes Dean scored for him (although he refused to disclose from where, only insisting he’d washed them before gifting) and starts making his way down the hall. 

When he passes Dean’s room, he stops, resting his fingers on the doorknob. God, he wishes he could feel sure enough to inhabit Dean's bedroom while he's gone, but he just isn’t certain that Dean would be okay with Sam getting all up in his space. Dean made such a huge deal about his room when they first moved in, making it pristine, spending a pretty penny on a nice mattress, and he’s just, it's like-- sometimes, Sam feels like this room is where Dean goes to be alone, to be away from Sam. Where he doesn’t have to be anyone’s big brother, where he can be scared and/or vulnerable, where he can drop his brave face. 

Someday, Sam hopes Dean will realize that Sam is grown up enough to not need Dean as a big brother all the time, or even most of the time. Most of the time, he just needs Dean as a man, as his brother and partner, but not as his protector. He wants Dean to know that he’s enough for Sam, more than enough, even when he doesn’t feel strong enough to do any protecting. That in those moments, when Dean feels weak, Sam would be strong for him. That Sam would gently hold his brother’s pieces together until Dean felt whole enough to move on his own again. Sam would kill, would die, would come back to life all over again to protect him.

Sighing, he walks past Dean’s room, heading to the only other place he knows he’ll feel safe enough to sleep.

The keys are under the driver’s side wheel-well, and Sam unlocks her with a homesick smile. If he can’t have Dean, or Dean’s memory foam, he can share in the misery of missing him with the only other being on this earth who aches for Dean like Sam: his brother’s best girl. Secretly (or not-so-secretly, these days), Sam’s best girl, too. 

He crawls into the backseat after throwing his pillow and blanket in, and he settles down, his form naturally avoiding the lumps and bumps of her fifty-year-old body from instinct alone. The leather is cold against his bare back, but it warms quickly as he settles down into her familiar curves. There’s no place more comforting for him to seek, and no place he’s had a better night’s rest. It shouldn’t be comfortable to lay his aging, beat-up body in the backseat of an old car, but it is. God, it really, truly is. 

It smells like Dean here, and like Sam. It smells like their lives together, smells like every single year they’ve lived, from infancy to adulthood, from cradling their bloody, broken bodies on the journey back home, to bringing them back together, as soulmates, along the Axis Mundi in Heaven. It smells like every joy, every sorrow, every pleading prayer to anything listening to _bring him back,_ every desperate mile sped towards their tearful, miraculous reunions. It smells like family, like loyalty and duty, like brown, crusted blood and weak, watery coffee, like their joy, like their pain. Like the smell of their panicked gasps as the accelerator is pushed to the floorboard, like the sweat that builds up like desperate tears against their skin. It smells like the lush, green Appalachians and the stark, icy Rockies, like the never-ending fields of golden grain and the eternity reaching out from each sandy coast. It smells like the road’s unending freedom, like their surrendering, dying breaths. Like their first gasping breaths of life all over again, one more time. Like the way they say each other's names when they think it will be their very last chance. Like everything, right here. It’s absolutely everything, and it’s all right here, under Sam’s trembling fingers.

It’s easy to fall asleep back here, blanketed by the memories, by the warmth they conjure up deep in his chest, deeper than his heart, like they're in his soul, like he’s generating his very own heat source. He sighs deeply through his nose, contented, one hand pressed against the divide of the front and backseat. If he closes his eyes, it’s like Dean is just on the other side, snoring quietly from being forced to sleep slightly propped up, against the door. 

If only he had a birthday candle to blow out, because he knows, without a doubt, what his wish would be. He falls asleep, wishing it with all his tired, hopeful heart. 

When Sam wakes again, it’s to his name being called from far away. He makes a quiet, questioning noise in the back of his throat, his eyes so heavy with slumber it feels like they’re glued shut. He vaguely wonders how long he’s been asleep, because he still feels exhausted.

He hears his name again, closer this time, but softer somehow, and that familiar tone makes his eyes blink open, finally, to stare into the bright green eyes hovering over him.

“Dean,” Sam sighs, his eyes closing again, relaxing back into the body-warm seat. Dean’s home, so everything’s gonna be okay. Good. That's, that's good. Then it hits him what he’s seeing, and his eyes fly back open, nearly braining himself against the door handle as he struggles to make sense of who exactly he's looking at. “Dean?”

His big brother is leaning over him in the backseat, propped up on all fours, his neck bent at an awkward angle so he can smile down into Sam’s sleepy, shocked face. It’s like Sam has dreamed him into reality, and he reaches out to touch Dean before he can stop himself.

Dean’s smile softens into something private as Sam runs his hands all over Dean’s bare arms, across his strong shoulders, causing his black t-shirt to bulge and stretch deliciously. His brother is home, and not only that, he’s here, right here, warm underneath Sam’s hands, his knees digging into Sam’s thighs uncomfortably. 

“Hey, baby brother,” Dean murmurs finally, when it seems he’s looked his fill all up and down Sam’s body, every inch he could see checked over with careful, big-brother eyes. “Happy birthday,” he adds, winking at his brother’s still-astonished expression.

Sam makes a noise, a high-pitched, hurting sound as he tightens his hands around Dean’s strong forearms. “You’re really here?” he asks quietly, forcing his voice to work beyond repeating his brother’s name in disbelief.

“Yeah,” Dean breathes, grinning. “Been lookin’ for you everywhere, kiddo. Scared me half to death when I couldn’t find you anywhere. Never would'a thought to look for you in the garage. Then, I noticed your pillow 'n blanket missing from your bed, and well.” Dean bites his lip, looking shy, of all things. “Well, you know. I spent many-a-night in here when you were missing, kidnapped by those smug British bastards. It-- made it easier, somehow. You know?”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, trying to convince himself he’s not dreaming. It’s just-- Dean is only sweet like this, open like this in Sam’s best dreams, so… how on earth could this be real? “I missed you,” Sam adds, breathing it shyly into the air between them, watching how the words affect his brother.

Dean’s eyes turn bright in the way they did that night, when they were so close to bringing it all to the forefront, and he contemplates Sam while biting the soft insides of his cheeks. It makes his cheekbones stand out like crazy, and Sam wonders again how someone who looks like Dean, someone who adds beauty to everything in this dull world just by being alive in it, could look at him the way he is now, like Dean can see that sort of beauty in Sam, too.

“I know,” Dean tells him in a voice that makes it sound like he's saying something else. He drops onto Sam's chest, then, taking his weight off his arms and hands, lowering his warm, heavy body to rest against his little brother instead. Dean wraps his strong, steady arms around Sam’s shoulders, and one gentle hand sneaks up to pet soft fingers through the tangles in Sam’s bed-head. Sam sighs, tipping his head back to stare up at Dean, unable to wipe the look of wonder off his face.

Seeing Dean up close like this, being able to count his freckles, see the imprint that each perfect tooth leaves in his perfect bottom lip as he chews at it nervously, smelling his tired road breath-- it’s at the edge of everything Sam has dared to want. He decides to be brave for once so Dean doesn't have to, and he wraps his arms around the small of Dean’s back, snugging their hips together tightly. Sam is rock-hard from sleep and Dean’s closeness, and he wants Dean to feel it all, feel what he does to Sam. The rub of their hips together tells Sam that Dean is halfway to hard himself, not unaffected by Sam either, apparently.

“Jesus, Sammy,” Dean pants, dropping his forehead to Sam’s, closing his eyes as he starts to tug at Sam’s hair. He lets Sam shove their hardness together with all the force he needs, lets Sam soak in all the proof of Dean's surrender he can handle. Sam loves him so much right now, he can barely stand it. 

“It felt all wrong, you bein' so far,” his big brother pants suddenly, right into the humid air shared between their open, gasping mouths. Sam can almost feel the ghost of Dean's bottom lip against his, but he concentrates. Whatever is on the tip of Dean's tongue is big, like Sam is taking Dean's confession. “H- _hated_ bein’ away from you. Always have, always fought t-to, _oh,”_ he cuts off suddenly as Sam’s hips move in their first purposeful grind against Dean’s hard cock, setting up a slow, dizzying rhythm in their hips, “k-keep you close, but it’s more than that, it’s-- god, Sam. Don’t-- don’t ever wanna be away from you. N-not anymore. Feels like, l-like I- I can’t breathe,” he stutters out, his grip in Sam’s hair becoming tighter and tighter. “N-need you with me. Made Cas zap us home as soon as I saw the date and realized. Just wanted this one day with you, to give you--” He breaks off, because Sam’s hands have made their way up to Dean’s face, and he holds it gently, like he could break Dean at any moment. 

Dean draws back to look at Sam, and of all the million things Sam could say to Dean, wants to say to Dean, he can only think of one thing. The one thing he’s been trying to tell Dean with every step forward he takes, to show him that all those steps forward have led him here, to Dean.

“I don’t want just one good day with you. I don’t want you to give me everything just because it’s my birthday. I, uh, I want that every day. Always-- always have, m-my whole life, and I’m-- I’m just... crazy about you. And. And I love you. I love you, Dean. God, I love you so--”

Sam is expecting to be cut off by the press of Dean’s mouth-- Dean’s I-wanna-kiss-you face is completely obvious, for one, and secondly, Dean stared at Sam's lips through his entire speech, but sadly, no. Dean isn’t halfway to Sam’s mouth before a familiar voice is heard, just outside the open car door.

“Dean, Sam, I apologize for ruining such a special moment, but the ice-cream cake is melting.”

Cas sounds perfectly contrite, so Sam and Dean both groan heartily, choosing to chuckle instead of cry at the interruption. For Sam's troubles, he gets a smile from Dean, who gives him a hand out of the backseat. He steadies Sam after he tries to stand tall on his wobbly legs, explaining that it’s nearly five in the evening, meaning Sam slept for almost twelve hours straight, so he needs to _take it easy for a sec, kiddo, geez._ He’s not surprised, after seven sleepless nights, that he crashed so hard when he finally felt safe enough to do so. Before following Cas into the hallway leading towards the kitchen, Dean lifts Sam’s hand to his lips, gently kissing at his clammy, too-warm palm, and then all five of his fingers, one-by-trembling-one.

Sam watches him do this with wide, wet eyes, hardly believing what he's seeing, but still desperate to commit this moment to memory. He expected Dean’s passion, but not his big brother tenderness. It hits him, then, that it's the same thing for Dean, like it is for Sam. He could never separate Dean the man from Dean the brother, and he wouldn't want to. He wishes he didn’t love it so much, but he does, and nothing could be hotter to him than the reminder that through all this, Dean is his brother, his big brother, who has protected and venerated and babied him all his life. He can’t help how he feels, that every inch of how he feels, including his lust for Dean’s body and the things it can do to him, is wrapped up in being his little brother. He can’t pretend for a second that Dean’s willingness to burn the whole world to the ground to get Sam back doesn’t turn him on like crazy. 

“Later,” Dean whispers to him, a promise Sam will make sure he keeps.

It turns out that Cas and Dean went to Whole Foods, of all places, before coming home. Dean tells Sam that he found a recipe for a kale chicken Caesar salad with a homemade vinaigrette on a food blog he follows, and he thought he’d make it for Sam’s birthday dinner, since Sam is all about _shitty rabbit food._ Sam nearly demands to know who this person is and what he’s done with Dean, but he keeps the sarcasm at bay. Instead, he lets himself be cared for by his favorite person in the whole world. 

“I thought you hated kale,” Sam smirks instead, watching Dean’s capable hands as he roughly chops the dark green vegetable. _Hottest housewife ever,_ Sam thinks again, as he blatantly checks out the way Dean’s tight ass moves underneath his most frayed, worn-in jeans. The denim is almost worn clean through in some areas, and they fit his brother's beautiful body like a glove. He would gladly watch Dean bend over to check the chicken in the oven for the rest of his life.

He can’t believe this day. Part of him is still waiting to wake up, but an even bigger part of him, unable to not answer Dean’s smile as he turns back to chopping kale, is starting to believe that this is real. Oh my god, this might just actually be happening. 

“I do hate kale,” Dean remarks eventually, wrinkling his pretty little nose as he tosses it into a big bowl. “Fuck kale, that’s what I always say.”

Sam can’t help the laugh that barks out of him, despite knowing damn well it'll just encourage Dean. He throws a dishtowel in his brother’s direction, who easily dodges it with a _’please, bitch’_ look. 

“Nah,” Dean decides eventually, after a moment of companionable silence. “Kale’s okay every once in a while. And this ain’t about me, so you’re gonna shut up and eat your dinner, and you’re gonna like it.”

“Or what?” Sam challenges quietly, his voice low, a lot different from the bratty little brother way he’d usually say it. 

Dean raises an eyebrow at him, grinning. “Oh-ho, Sam-may, playin’ with fire, hmm?”

“Not playin’ at all,” Sam insists, leaning forward to rest his chin in his open palm, all but batting his eyelashes at his brother. They share a long look, one that makes Sam’s toes curl in his slippers, before the timer on the oven goes off.

Dinner is delicious, of course. Dean knows what he’s doing in the kitchen, and he always knows how much Sam can and/or will eat, so Sam is always able to clean his plate. Tonight, Sam asks for seconds, and he doesn't even try to hide the sappy grin on his face at Dean's pleased blush. To save face, Dean makes a show of choking down the kale, but by the end of the meal, they’re both sighing with satisfaction, full to the brim, smiling at each other a little dazedly from across the kitchen table.

Cas chooses then to wander back into the kitchen, stuffing his phone back into one of his trench coat's deep pockets. “I apologize, Sam. That was Crowley. He wanted to--”

Dean holds up his hand, stopping Castiel's explanation before it has a chance to begin. “Not today, Cas. Okay? All of that shit can wait 'til tomorrow, right? Today, I’m gonna be happy I have my little brother with me, and that our best be-winged pal is here to eat some ice cream cake with us. Got me?” 

The threatening look Dean sends Cas, coupled with the insistence that today, Sam has Dean’s undivided attention, does nothing to calm the racing of blood just underneath Sam's skin, the racing that started in the backseat of their car, with Dean inches from kissing him, from making Sam his. 

“Just icing for me, please,” Cas responds after a beat, which makes Sam chuckle, and the tension is broken between them. Sam manages a whole piece, Dean eats two, and Cas eats so much icing, Sam feels a little ill watching him. 

After that, Sam waves them both off, needing a shower after sleeping twelve long hours in the backseat of a car. He washes himself carefully, making sure to reach every nook and cranny, because he has no idea what the rest of this night may hold. He wants every inch of his skin to be soft and sweet-smelling, anywhere that Dean could touch, anywhere he wants to explore. Sam wants his body to be inviting, wants Dean to make himself at home there. 

By the time he shuffles back towards the Bunker's main rooms, the kitchen is dark, clean and empty. Sam shrugs, figuring Dean will come find him when he’s ready, and he makes his way to the library to finish up on some of the research he hasn’t been able to concentrate on for the last week.

Sam isn’t sure how much time has passed when he looks up from his filing, but his neck is cramped from reading for so long. He frowns, rubbing at his tired eyes, wondering why Dean hasn’t come to get him for… anything yet. He vaguely remembers hearing the shower cut on a while ago, but forgot about it as he became consumed in his reading once more.

He stands, stretching, frown growing deeper as he takes in the darkened bunker. The hallway lights are on, but the rest of their home is quiet and shadowy. All of a sudden, something horrible occurs to Sam. What if-- what if he dreamed about Dean coming home while he was reading in the library? He could have easily dozed off, and now that he’s awake, what if Dean is still gone? Oh, no. Oh, god, _nonono--_

He hates that idea so much, he physically rejects it, shaking his head as he stumbles into the hallway. He almost sprints to Dean’s room, heart pounding in his chest, his stomach churning sickly. God, he's such an idiot. He’d almost convinced himself that this was real, that _his_ Dean was being this amazing, this sweet to him, but of course it's not real. Nothing like this ever happens to Sam. He just... wants it so bad, he let himself believe his own delusions. 

He throws open Dean’s door, certain that Dean isn’t here. He doesn’t care, though, ready to crawl into his big brother’s empty bed for a good, long, pathetic cry. However, a figure outlined in shadow sits straight up, clearly startled by Sam’s sudden entry, and that’s definitely Dean’s voice demanding, 

“Holy _shit,_ Sam! Are you on _pills?”_

Sam stares at his big brother, at his indignant, beautiful face, his messy bed head, his eyes squinting grumpily against the lamp light after he leans over to flick it on. 

“You’re here,” Sam murmurs, moving towards the bed, trembling hand outstretched, knees weak. He was so wrong, unbelievably but happily wrong, and he's ashamed that he was able to talk himself out of Dean being here, loving him this much. But it's not a reflection of Dean; rather, it's Sam's rampant insecurity that led him to doubt all this. 

Dean’s startled anger melts into understanding when Sam moves close enough for Dean to see the look on his little brother’s face. Whatever he sees there causes him to nod slowly with a sweet, private smile. Dean flings his arms open wide, giving all the permission Sam needs to come touch him, hold him. “Yeah, Sammy. It’s real. I’m real. C’mere, baby brother. Come see for yourself.”

With a high, hurt noise, Sam all but leaps onto the bed, instantly burying his face into Dean's bare chest, unable to stop the chattering of his teeth, even though he knows it's not cold. He's just so overwhelmed, but in a good way, an _amazing_ way, letting out a long, shaky breath against the fading lines of his brother's tattoo. Dean shushes him while wrapping his strong arms around Sam, locking them behind Sam's back so he's completely caged in. Strangely, Sam has never felt more free. Free to trail his soft, open mouth up into the sweet curve of Dean’s neck, making his brother groan deep in his chest.

“Dean,” Sam whispers against all that warm, big-brother skin, his hands unable to stop mapping out his strong back, tracing Dean’s scars, the infinite badges of honor branded right into Dean's skin, proof of his bravery, his loyalty. His scars show that although violence gave him those marks, love, with its steady hands, put him back together again, better than before. The realization that Sam partly owns all this skin, this beautiful body of his brother's, makes him brave enough to push the tips of his fingers down further, just barely grazing the soft, forbidden skin underneath Dean’s waistband. 

"Tell me what you need,” Dean demands suddenly, burying his nose into Sam’s hair to breathe his scent in deep, like it's making him stronger, to smell him so close. Like Dean needs all strength he can get, because his words sound more like begging, like he’s asking for something only Sam can give him. And if there's anything Dean hates, it's the 'weakness' in having to ask someone for something. He always has hated it. It drives Sam crazy, but at the same time, he doesn't want his brother to ever _have_ to ask. He wants to be giving Dean what he wants at all times, intuitively. And 'round and 'round they go.

Sam is really glad he took the time to clean himself so meticulously, because Dean continues to breathe Sam in, humming contentedly, like it's the best thing Dean's ever done. A deep breath in starts at Sam's temple before Dean grazes the tip of his his nose down Sam's jawline, the hum turning into a groan in the back of his throat before his nose finds a home in the juncture between Sam's shoulder and neck, burying his whole face there. He starts to bite at the tender skin there, completely distracting Sam in the process. Dean retreats, backing up to look Sam in the eye, to repeat his demand. 

“What I need,” Sam repeats breathlessly, when he realizes what Dean's asking. He gives a little laugh, biting at Dean’s collarbone just to hear what noise Dean makes, and he’s not disappointed. “Dean, I… I need you to show me that-- show me how-- I need you to show me that I-- that I belong to you, Dean. God, I-- if I were yours, and you-- you were loving me-- I. That’s what I need. For you to show me that.”

_"Fuck,_ Sam,” Dean gasps, shutting his eyes like he can’t believe what just came out of Sam's mouth. Shaking his head like he's bracing himself, Dean gets a strong hand up in Sam’s wild hair, pulling Sam away from where he's marking Dean's neck. He opens his eyes, looking at his little brother’s face like he’s never seen him before. “Don’t you know, Sammy? God. You _do_ belong to me. You _are_ mine. And I-- I damned my soul for you. So, uh, I... I'm yours, too. And-- and despite the shit dad put us through, he-- you've been mine the second Dad put you in my arms, and... he gave my life purpose. And so did you, Sammy, 'cause he mighta been the reason I never let you outta my sight to begin with, but-- it was so easy to, to love you. Just because you were you. And you have given me everything. But he-- He gave me the best thing that has ever happened to me. He gave me the-- the love of my life.” Dean whispers the last part, biting at his bottom lip, looking away like he can't bear to see his heart reflected in Sam's eyes. 

Sam traces a gentle hand up Dean’s cheek, pressing his thumb against Dean’s lower lip, so crazy about him it hurts. But right now, talk is as cheap as it could ever be to Sam. “Then show me, please. God, Dean. _Please._ ” 

At the first touch of Dean’s soft lips to Sam’s, they both make hurt, lonely sounds, gasping hard into each other’s mouth after each soft press. Dean’s lips are careful, gentle, as he teases Sam with small hints of the softer pink insides of his mouth. Sam groans in frustration, needing inside like _yesterday,_ pushing up into his brother, pressing deeper to open Dean up, so they can let each other in. Dean gives in a little at a time, but even with his soft, warm tongue starting to press deeply into Sam's panting mouth, his kisses stay slow and deep and hot and stupefying. Sam can only try to hold on as Dean shows him all the love he’s been repressing his whole life, as he shows Sam the way he kisses someone when they belong to him. Dean chuckles against his mouth suddenly, the noise coming from low in his throat, whispering 'breathe, baby.' 

Sam realizes he’s been holding his breath for god knows how long, and when he breathes in, Dean reattaches their mouths with a greedy sound, pushing Sam back into his mattress with a firm hand to the chest. Dean breaks their kiss with a gasp, pushing his mouth down farther, sucking and licking and biting at every inch of Sam’s neck and collarbones he can reach. 

Sam has absolutely no doubt that Dean is mentally cataloging each mark he makes, needing to intimately know the landmarks of each one, every claim he lays against Sam’s skin. Sam starts tugging at his own shirt, and they both groan unhappily when they have to pull away, but when Dean comes back, oh. It’s even _better._ The hot press of Dean’s skin against his own bare chest and stomach has him groaning, hitching his hips into his big brother’s, scrambling his fingers all up and down every inch of skin Sam can get his hands on. 

“What do you want,” Dean slurs against his chest, mouthing at his nipple before sucking it harshly between his swollen lips. He bites at the point, the pain making Sam’s overly-hard cock drip precome into his boxer briefs, and he writhes distractedly against Dean’s mouth for a moment, holding onto Dean's hair for dear life. He tugs sharply at Sam's chest hair, which he's never let get so untamed and thick, but he secretly kinda likes it. He meets Dean's eyes, and he can tell Dean does, too. The reminder that Sam might be his little brother, but he's all man. 

Dean repeats the question as his fingers brush through the coarse hair to get a hold of Sam’s other nipple, and Sam can hardly concentrate over the pluck-pull rhythm Dean has started up to torture it into a stiff peak. 

“Everything,” Sam answers when Dean's torture finally relents. He watches as Dean's hot, bitten-red mouth dips farther and farther south, feeling dazed. Dean removes Sam’s boxer briefs in one swift, surprising movement, and Sam gasps in excited-embarrassment when his achingly hard dick smacks against his stomach with a wet sound. 

“Jesus, Sammy,” Dean murmurs, letting the tip of his index finger trail over the impressive length of Sam. “Been holdin’ out on me, hmm?” 

His hips jerk as Dean circles his finger over the wet head of Sam’s long, smooth, pretty cock, over and over, like he’s playing in the precome that keeps drooling out of Sam’s slit. He can’t help it-- it’s all happening so fast, and Dean is so insanely, dangerously beautiful like this, Sam swears he could come with just that single concentrated touch, right here under Dean's unwavering eyes. 

“Will-- can you-- inside me?” Sam pants, after gathering every ounce of courage he could find. It helps that Dean’s finger has started to travel lower, tickling over his balls before pushing them back, trailing dangerously close to his hole. Sam’s certain Dean wants this, too, has for as long as Sam, but it’s still so damn hard to ask his brother for what he wants. 

“Yeah?” Dean asks him, smiling sweetly, like Sam just gave him everything he's ever wanted. He pushes Sam’s left leg back and back and back until Sam’s knee is against his chest, spreading Sam’s other leg out farther to the side. Sam hitches his hips up to help because god, he wants Dean to see him. 

Sam watches Dean’s face as he touches his thumb to his little brother’s hole for the first time. Dean looks entranced with the clench and release of the tight, pink skin, with the way Sam forces his hole to relax, to let Dean’s thumb push just barely inside. They both moan with the slight intrusion, and Dean looks up at him, eyes bright. 

"You’d really let me?” Dean wonders, crawling back up Sam’s body to lay a deep, searching kiss to his lips, like he already knows the answer. But he sounds stunned, awed and-- and like he loves Sam so much, he can’t believe Sam could ever begin to love him back like that, to let him in this way. Sam knows the feeling. 

“Need it so bad,” Sam tells him, drawing him into another kiss that makes Dean groan in surprise, to feel the voracity of Sam’s want, the way he demands Dean’s tongue as he screws his hips against Dean’s, rubbing against him shamelessly. He snakes a hand down between them, squeezing Dean's long (which he expected), thick (which is a surprise, especially _how_ thick he is) cock through his boxer-briefs, causing the damp stain against the tip to grow darker. Dean gasps, dropping to his elbows with a shudder. “Always wanted you so bad, Dean. Wanted you as close as I could get you.” 

"Hmm, Sammy,” Dean murmurs against his lips, softly kissing at them before biting his puffy, bottom lip sharply. “Want that, too. But me first, okay?” 

It takes a second for Sam to understand what Dean’s asking, and he can’t help but startle when it hits him. 

“You want me to…?” Sam gasps, trailing off as one of his hands wanders down Dean’s back, pulling sharply at one of Dean’s ass cheeks when he reaches it, knowing Dean’s hole will feel the stretch. He feels gratified by Dean’s soft noise, by the way Dean melts against him, murmuring, ‘yeah, yeah,’ letting his hard dick rub against Sam’s hard tummy. 

Not ten minutes later, Dean is flat on his back, panting open-mouthed and wide-eyed up at Sam, who has three fingers inside his older brother, all the way to the last knuckle. Dean looks absolutely stunned by the whole thing, like this wasn’t totally his idea, like he had no idea his body could do this. Sam can’t look away from his stretched-open hole, wet with lube, gaping and mouthing at air when he pulls his fingers out. When he pushes them back in, he finally finds Dean’s prostate, which makes his stoic, taciturn, warrior big brother gasp, arching up against the bed, spreading his legs as far as they’ll go, grinding his hips into the pounding of Sam’s fingers, mumbling all sorts of things Sam will never repeat. 

Sam pulls his fingers out for the last time, slicking up his cock with his wet hand. He nearly comes from just that, with the way Dean is trying to pull him down, his strong bowed legs hooking behind his back and tugging. 

“Fuck me, Sammy, c’mon, c’mon,” he’s groaning, bracing right his foot against Sam’s waist as he helps guide Sam’s cock to his well-stretched hole. When Sam presses inside, they both still with a long groan, but Dean presses him onward with his feet pushing insistently into Sam’s ass muscles. 

"So fuckin’ big, Sammy, Jesus,” Dean breathes, head tipped so far back it tightens the skin against his adam's apple, and Sam can _see_ Dean's near-whimpers vibrating his throat as he makes room, pushes himself inside. He finds Sam’s hand where it’s gripping the sheets by Dean’s head, pushing at his fingers until Sam gets the hint, twining their fingers up into a fist. 

Sam knows he has a big dick, okay, but he’s never felt this big in his life. Dean is so tight, it nearly takes Sam’s breath away, and by instinct only is he able to fuck his way patiently through all that tight muscle without coming. Dean is squeezing his fingers so tightly, he feels like they’re going to snap in half. But then again, he's also taking Sam’s dick so beautifully, he thinks he’d let Dean punch him in the face right now. 

“Lemme in, brother, c’mon,” Sam murmurs against Dean’s pinched mouth, reaching down to stroke at his brother’s cock, which has gone soft with the shock of penetration. “Feels so good, Dean. God. Takin’ it for your little brother so good.” 

Dean makes a noise Sam will never forget, somewhere between a moan and a sob, and his body relaxes completely, letting Sam sink in to the hilt, his balls pressed against the warm curve of Dean’s ass. Sam drops forward with a groan, kissing Dean’s slack, panting mouth. 

“That’s it, baby, that’s it. So good,” Sam murmurs against Dean’s lips in between soft, reassuring kisses Dean is doing his best to return, but he seems a little distracted by the big cock digging up deep inside him, filling him up. Sam is, too, to be honest, trying so hard not to move, trying so hard not to come at the thought of Dean wanting to take his little brother’s cock like a good boy. He’s so disarmed by Dean right now, can hardly believe what he's doing. Dean must have really wanted this, because Sam always assumed-- happily-- that he would bottom in a relationship between them. After all, Sam’s been messing with his asshole since he was a teenager, using fingers and eventually toys pretty much the second he figured out he had a prostate. He likes it a lot, like, a _lot,_ but he never thought Dean would. Never thought he'd want to even try. 

He never thought Dean would surrender to them, to Sam like this. But he wants Sam to take him, too, to own him, too, to make Dean belong to Sam, too. So Sam begins to thrust his hips, begins to really move his weight around inside his brother. Dean’s eyes snap open on his withdraw, before slamming shut accompanied by a high-pitched moan as Sam pushes his hips forward again. 

“God, Sam,” Dean gasps, finally breaking his silence, curling a hand down to touch his own dripping cock. “Feels so good. Oh my god. Harder, baby. _God,_ fuck me harder.” 

Dean’s ankles are slipping against Sam's sweaty flanks, their skin slapping loudly together, their moans quieted only slightly by each other’s mouths. Sam's hips jerk hard when Dean suddenly tugs at his ass cheeks, hands spreading him wide. He can't help his surprised gasp as a lubed up (when in the hell, that _sneaky--_ ) finger trails over his hole. 

"D-Dean,” Sam moans against Dean’s swollen, blood red mouth. His hips keep moving, keep pounding into the hot, soft place his cock has beaten into his brother’s insides, but soon he’s not chasing the feeling of pushing into Dean. Instead, he's completely unable to stop pushing back onto the two thick fingers Dean is working up inside him. So embarrassing, how quickly he falls apart once his ass gets involved. 

"H-holy shit,” Sam groans as Dean’s middle fingers sparks unerringly across his prostate, again and again until Sam is all but sobbing into Dean’s mouth, his hole throbbing along with his balls, his cock stretching bigger and harder inside Dean. The way Dean is turning him into goo with just two fingers is completely humiliating, and he suddenly feels like the gawky, geeky little brother trying to fuck his worldly, sex-god of a big brother. What's evn more humiliating: he fucking _loves_ it. 

"So beautiful, Sammy,” Dean murmurs against Sam’s lips, like he can read Sam’s self-deprecating thoughts, spreading his pretty bowed legs even wider to accommodate the way Sam needs to give it to him. “Feel so good inside of me, baby brother, could’a never dreamed. Want you to come now, okay? Come in me so I can take you, give you what you've wanted all these years. You’ve wanted big brother to wreck that sweet hole since you were just a kid, haven’t you, baby?” 

“ _Yes,_ Dean, _please,_ oh my god,” Sam sobs, so past the point of caring that he is straight up _begging_ for his brother's dick. He comes with a shout, Dean’s fingers rubbing hard at his prostate like it's a clit, while his soft and fucked out insides clench around him, like they’re milking his release straight from his fucking _soul._ He comes so hard his vision goes black and spotty, because Dean is completely right about him, and _god_ he’s so humiliated that Dean knows how much Sam has always wanted Dean to fuck the brattiness right out of him. He could never even admit it all the way to himself, but knowing now, it somehow makes it better. He knows now that Dean truly does know how to take care of him, all of him, in every way, like Sam always suspected he would. It's such a relief, and Sam is beyond ready to give himself over to his brother. 

Sam pulls out of Dean slowly, both of them shivering, Dean letting the three fingers he’d worked into Sam’s ass fall away slowly, plucking at his rim until Sam squirms before behaving (momentarily). Sam pushes his brother's bowed legs up and back, staring at the sweet pink hole trying to rid itself of the load Sam gave it. He scoops up all he can, using two fingers to push it back up inside his brother. Dean moans softly, teasing a little at the head of his blood-red, dripping cock, so ready to be inside Sam, it has to hurt. But Dean lets Sam play with him, nearly panting by the time Sam is done torturing Dean’s rim in retaliation. 

“Gonna be the death’a me,” Dean tells him croakily, but his smile says that this is something he would happily die for. His words are a reminder of the night they almost did this, over a year ago. Sam grins, falling flat on his back, spreading his legs under his brother’s weighted gaze. 

“Gonna show me now?” Sam challenges, letting his still-lubed fingers travel down his torso, around his softening cock, lifting his balls to play around in the loosened up place Dean’s been making for himself inside Sam. He hooks his knee over his elbow, pulling himself wider as he dips two fingers inside. He wants Dean to have a clear view. 

“Yeah,” Dean murmurs, “gonna show you.” But he still doesn’t touch Sam. 

He watches Dean watch him, the way Sam works three of his own fingers back inside himself, tugging at his rim until he wants to sob, then toying with his prostate, flicking and rubbing until he nearly flies off the bed. When he opens his eyes again, Dean is kneeling between his legs, panting harshly, staring down at him so openly, Sam blushes. He withdraws his fingers from his hole as he spreads his legs wide, showing Dean where he's ready and waiting for him, watching his brother slick up his cock. He realizes what this means, suddenly, what’s going to finally happen, and he begins to whimper underneath each breath, spreading his legs as wide as he can, desperate and shameless in it. All he can think is _yesyesyesfinallyyes._

“So beautiful like this, Sammy,” Dean whispers, dipping his own fingers into Sam’s well-stretched hole, moaning at the feel of him. “So soft. Gonna make you belong to me, right now. Take a breath for me, baby, okay?” He pushes Sam’s legs back to his chest as Sam inhales. 

When Sam exhales, it comes out as a long groan, because Dean sinks his thick cock right up inside of him, pushing in against the tight muscle until Sam's ass has no choice but to open for him, has no choice but to take him inside. And god, he just spreads his legs wider, and he-- 

“Yeah, Sammy, you take it,” Dean groans against Sam's open, panting mouth, reading his mind again, like he has a direct link to Sam’s thoughts, biting at his little brother’s swollen, abused lips, drinking up the soft, hurt sounds that escape Sam’s throat. 

“Jesus, Dean--” Sam barely has time to get two words out of his gasping mouth before his brother folds him nearly in half, using the backs of Sam’s bent knees to grip tight, to give himself leverage to really pack it down deep into his little brother, to tear him open and raw and puffy with the force behind his hips. This-- god. This is what Sam asked for, exactly what he wanted. This is Dean making Sam belong to him, carving a place inside him where he fits perfectly, like a lock and key. Sam grabs onto his wrists, where they’re bracing his hands, his weight against the mattress. Dean’s arms feel strong and alive under his roaming fingers, and he can’t shut his mouth, can’t stop the moaning and pitiful whining, loving every single powerful stroke of his brother’s hips. Loving the way Dean owns him. 

“ _God,_ S-Sammy, g-gonna come, _ah,_ ” Dean bites out finally, his thrusts changing from his pounding pace into deep strokes that force his hips into a roll more graceful than any dancer, the way Dean moves his beautiful body to love him. Sam makes his body as soft and pliant as he can, clenching his fucked-out ass tight to milk every bit of his brother’s pleasure. 

Sam feels it when Dean comes, feels the shudders wracking through his body, contracting his abs, and the warmth spreading inside him. He sighs deeply through his nose as Dean collapses on top of him, letting his fingers trail through his brother’s sweaty hair. Dean gasps into his neck, letting out a disbelieving little laugh as he picks himself back up to eat at Sam’s sore mouth, kiss and kiss him until their lips are numb and they taste like each other’s breath. 

“Mmm, best birthday present ever,” Sam murmurs finally, accepting one last kiss before Dean rolls over to find something to wipe them down with. “So, uh. Why’d you go to bed instead of, you know, coming to get me in the library?” 

Dean shrugs, and if Sam didn’t know any better, he’d say his brother is embarrassed. Dean finds his discarded black t-shirt, balling it up in his fist to gently wipe the come away from Sam’s skin. He clears his throat after a couple moments. “Wanted… to see if you’d… you know. Come to me. I dunno. Felt kinda silly goin’ on about your birthday when all this shit is goin’ on in our lives. I, uh, came on pretty strong in the car, you know?” 

Sam shakes his head, letting Dean maneuver him this way and that to wipe the bodily fluids away from his skin. “I missed you so much when you were gone,” Sam whispers against Dean's lips as he leans up to erase the anxiety off his brother’s beautiful face. “Everything that happened… I almost didn’t believe it. Because I got everything I wanted the second you got home. And you remembering my birthday despite all the… the shit. Wanting to give me one good day. It means the world to me, Dean. You mean the world to me. You have to know that.” 

Dean stares at him for a while, so Sam lets him see the truth written all over the relaxed lines of his body. Dean nods eventually, lying back against the mattress with a long, heavy sigh. He’s on his back, staring at the ceiling, seemingly thinking over what Sam just said. Then he grins to himself, turning a bigger smile on to Sam, lifting his arm in invitation. Sam takes a moment to look at him, really look at him. He wants to commit to memory the first moments of belonging to Dean. So far, it's been amazing. 

“Well?” Dean demands impatiently, eyeing Sam like _get your ass over here,_ and really, this whole mess between them started because Sam has never been able to resist Dean’s love. So how could he possibly resist it now, when Dean is giving it away so freely? 

He buries his nose in the warm juncture between his big brother’s neck and shoulder, resting his weary head against Dean’s warm, broad chest, kissing absently at his tattoo, the same one Sam will be getting redone on his own chest very soon. As soon as he settles in to a comfortable spot, Dean’s strong heartbeat begins to thump loudly against his ear, and if Sam wanted, he could just cry at how that makes him feel. How safe, how protected, how wanted. How loved. How... owned. 

"Sammy," Dean murmurs quietly, moments before Sam surrenders to the best night of sleep he's had in years. "You know I... me, too. I love you like that, too. Love you more than anything. So much that it scares me. But I wouldn't change it, okay? Not for anything. Go to sleep, little brother. 'M'right here." 

"Yeah," Sam mumbles sleepily, because Dean is right. He's here, right here. And he guesses that means this time, his wish really did come true. 

**Author's Note:**

> And to all of you who stick around to read my stuff, despite the months that stretch between stories, thank you. The thought of you all keeps me opening up my word doc when I'm exhausted/lazy and just don't wannaaaaaaa write. This is a love letter for you, too. I hope you know how much I appreciate every kudos & comment sent my way. Seriously, makes the good days amazing and the bad days okay. Just imagine me as a server, servin' y'all with brotherly goodness, but the only form of payment I receive is a voluntary tip from my 'customer.' Tips are kudos & comments. And on that really bad analogy, I love y'all. 'Til next time, xoxoxo L


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